Heaven
by Worldmage
Summary: We often overlook the quiet moments. We often forget the quiet moments. But they're still important.


Disclaimer: As a weird Greek guy once said, "All I know is that I know nothing

Disclaimer: As a weird Greek guy once said, "All I know is that I know nothing."   
Disclaimer II: It's his idea, not mine. I know more than "nothing." I own more ideas than "nothing."   
Disclaimer III: However, 'all I own' includes neither Gainax's Shin Seiki Evangelion nor Rammstein's "Engel," parts of which I have taken the liberty of translating and incorporating.

Heaven

_Those who are good during life on Earth will, after death, become angels. Looking to the sky, you ask why they can't be seen._

The sun is far brighter here.

Below, far below, the Jet Alone. Above, I jet alone, in winged pursuit. Down there, I suppose that there is a mission to be performed. Lives to save. Misato will enact her plan and stop the hideous construct's activation, while this other hideous construct and I stop its motion. It strikes me, for a moment, as appropriate that this monster and I will have less effect than a mere human, typing a code word into a keyboard.

But the world of Eva is of the past and future, not the present. The present is sunlight, beauty of cloudscape, and the deafening purity of absolute silence. The briefings have mercifully paused; the flood of information and terror has stopped. Evangelion and LCL shield me from the roaring of the transport jet. I can imagine that this inner stillness is a match for the outer tranquility—the gentle rolling of the clouds, the soft whisper of sunbeams falling to the ground.

This is art that cannot be captured by brush, pen, or even photographic film. If the cockpit screen-capture is on, surely the footage will be disposed of. To those on the ground, it's boring. Blue sky. Sun. Clouds. So much the same; so much useless video time. They don't understand. They can't understand, on the ground. Even I will forget. But for now I know; I live the artistry; I _fly_.

From far above, the sun reflects off of a thin layer of cloud far below. Closer to Earth, I reflect on the clouds. The shape of each appears at first to be solid, but is in reality fleeting and ephemeral, shifting slightly as I watch. They remind me, in a strange way, of… life. My life.

Life works differently on different levels. Reality changes with observation. I, Shinji, am defined by the multitudes that observe me as well as by my own self-reflections. How do I appear from far off? Quiet, calm, unchanging, blank? Does closer observation yield chaos and turmoil, the free-fall whistling of wind and the cold uncertainty of vapor?

During my childhood I would lie on a hill, pointing at fish, faces, monsters that showed themselves to me in the clouds. The other children—when I was with other children, which was rare—would see different things. Observation changed with the observer. Shape changed with perspective. Do I, too, wear a new face each time somebody looks at me? It must be so. That's the only thing that makes sense. How do I look to Rei? To Misato? To my father? How do I look to myself, when I look at myself? This period of pure external sensation makes me realize most strongly how little I know about myself. This period of pure internal cognition makes me realize most strongly how little I know about my Self.

There's something intrinsically _correct_ about this place. Here, I feel at peace and at home. This is the sky. This is Heaven. Home of the Angels. I don't think that we would fight, if we met in the silent sunlight. I don't think we would speak, even if the Angels could speak. We might fly for a time in meditative companionship. We might merely be aware of each other's presence as we trace our separate paths across the sky.

It reminds me, in a dim and shadowy way, of the ground. There, I was drifting and purposeless. I was lost. I met people; we traveled together or merely near to each other for a time, then parted ways. I think that happened again recently—I remember rain, train stations, the mountains, the fields… and the mists, so akin to these clouds—but that belongs to another time and place. The here-and-now is for contemplation.

It strikes me as dreadfully ironic that here, I'm moving in a straight line. No, it's not ironic that my thoughts would be "straight." They're naturally clear in this realm of abstraction. The path that my mind follows may seem random to some random observer, but to me it is the most pointed route traceable. Avoid the storms and downdrafts of doubt. Ride over the confusion of turbulence. That's a straight line, straighter than geometry could tell.

(I failed geometry. The teacher said that I wasn't trying.) The irony is that the clarity and straightness come from down there. It comes from the world where I must fight the Angels. Without that stupid nuclear robot, what would I be doing now? I wouldn't be flying. I wouldn't be thinking in freedom, my ears deafened by the silence of the sun's rays, my eyes blinded by the brilliance of the clouds. I would be drifting away from my classmates and teacher at school. I would be failing geometry. I forget the formulae. I forget everything. Mankind survives by forgetting, especially the things that matter most.

I know that I will forget all of this. The beautiful light, the streaming wind, the sheer freedom of flight. Even now, Misato is giving me the thumbs-up, signaling the imminence of our return to the ground. I'll fight the robot down there, and the Angels, and my father, and myself. I'll find a piece of music on the global cultural database; a piece that almost brings back this happy feeling. I'll load it and burn it onto a r/w SDAT tape. I'll listen to it endlessly, trying to recapture… the spirit of flight itself, I suppose. Trying to resolve, or at least ease, the human conflict within myself with a taste—just a taste—of Heaven.

_'Only when the clouds go to sleep can we be seen in the sky. We are fearful and isolated.'   
And, God knows, I do not wish to be an Angel._

The bolts release, and I fall to Earth.

—

Author's Notes: I was talking about NGE the other day with some friends, and we agreed just about unanimously that the "Jet Alone" episode was the single most worthless of the entire series. Well, I still think it's true, but I don't recall ever reading about the episode in any fanfiction. Somebody had to do it. Most of this was written aboard an airplane, actually. Surprised?   
"Engel" lyrics in italics, of course. And I know that Eva has been attached to Rammstein's music before, but I don't think in this manner. (I recommend the music video, by the way.) Thank you for your time and reviews.-Worldmage


End file.
